Two strangers get to know each other better after one accepts hospitality. There are also some estimations made as to Parker's lifestyle choices.

"The Cute Ones Always Are"

Janet's Apartment

Carrie sits on the edge of the borrowed bed in the battered clothes that have served her as pajamas since she got out of the funny farm. Her expression might suggest tortured dreams, or maybe just someone who does not, by nature, get out of bed early in the morning. She reaches down the floppy t-shirt to fish the orthopedic plate away from her bare skin and feel it between her thumb and finger. "It happened. You know it happened. They were wrong. You were right. Could you get it through your darn head already, for pete's sake?" She seems calmer this morning, for anyone listening. She looks around the room and scootches off the foot of the bed, pulling the shirt down, and letting the plate drop back down it next to her skin. She peeks around the door to see if anyone else is still here.

It would seem Parker is here, based on the bare foot dangling off the edge of a couch too short for his more than six feet of length. Maybe he already tried to get up once, because there's a silken scarf around his neck loosely and a wrap sweater hanging around his shoulders instead of a blanket over the rest of him. The shirt is less telling, just a white v-necked tee. But the colorful striped boxers? Yeah. Probably he didn't get much of anywhere. His other leg is jaunted out to the side, knee almost touching the nearby coffee table splattered with yesterday's dishes. Meanwhile, both arms are crooked over the purple throw-pillow he's placed deliberately on top of his face, shielding him from what is sunlight streaming through a couple of open windows.

Carrie watches Parker sleep a while and chews at the cuticle of her thumb. Okay, he's sleeping. And in his boxers. Kinda skinny, but… kinda cute. She lets that thought drop there, not quite hard enough that it hits the floor next level down, and quietly creeps to the shower, hoping to score one before he wakes up. Company in the shower used to seem romantic and sexy. After roommate #5, it just reminds her of Psycho too much. She's not in long, and she doesn't use much shampoo or conditioner.

She either has perfect timing, or the splattering noise of the shower has covered up sounds of wakefulness outside in the rest of the apartment. Either way, it isn't until she's probably toweling her hair that it likely becomes really apparent that her apartment company is now awake; Parker's only been known to sleep-play the keyboard once, and today is not that day. So the lazy strains of Bad Romance are a sign that's he's up, sitting cross-legged and now with pants, at the keyboard inserted into the decor. Underneath one arm is tucked a box of Coco Puffs that he delves into once in a while, disturbing the melody that he gets around by humming the non-played sections around mouthfuls of chocolate-y breakfast.

Carrie emerges carrying her pajamas, now soaking wet and wrung out, and socks and underthings in her other hand, also soaking wet and wrung out. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." She looks over Parker's shoulder and moves up curiously. "Whatcha doin'?"

Hearing her on the approach, Parker glances over his shoulder, using this to give her a good up-and-down that seems devoid of the usual reasons a guy gives a girl an up-and-down. He's quickly onto the clothes in her hands and then the floor where they're dripping. "I think we have washers for that," he observes, adjusting his positioning on the keyboard bench slightly so he can lean back more to see her than lean over to play. Eventually, the melody stops entirely as his fingers draw away and he gestures the open top of the cereal box in her direction. "I'm breakfastin'. And thinking. I think and play. Therefore, I breakfast and play."

Carrie looks down at her washed clothes and blushes a little. "Sorry. I try not to assume I'm invited to use stuff like the washer, and you know. Chance to have more clean clothes. Always good." She arranges her things somewhere they might dry faster. Probably on the floor, all stretched out. Yeah, you can see her underthings. So what? She's not in that set. "You're good. Do you play in a band or something?"

"Who would invite you over and then not let you use the washer?" Parker ponders, his nose scrunching up with his look of displeasure at the very thought, "I think that's technically defined as torture. Is that illegal?" A shrug passes the thought away. When she doesn't seem to want cereal, he digs in for a few more handfuls, himself, watching the process of clothes-laying-out with something bordering on judgmental — it's too early in the morning to be really caustic. "Yeah," he mumbles around a bunch of little Coco pieces, "You should really take something of Janalan's. You guys are sort of the same colors, certainly enough in a clothing emergency. Which, you know, you're clearly having." As to the keyboard, he glances at it, then away just as easily without a touch of ego. "It's just something I taught myself during class. I did tagalong with a band once. They were German. Or their music was. Anyway, it sounded badass like German."

Carrie eyes the cereal box a little. "Um. Can I mooch some breakfast, too, long as you're being generous with the hospitality?" She looks up at Parker, after his comment about her clothes. "Is this Janalan going to come back, do you think?" Carrie? Refuse charity from others? Not a chance. Steal? That's something entirely different. "Taught yourself during what class? Are you a student?"

Said cereal box is easily gestured at her again, "I tried to offer before. Was I too subtle?" Parker inquires, not sounding all too concerned as to if he was or not, in the end. "Jancakes?" He adds, glancing to the ceiling to think over it a moment. "She's probably at work. Or kidnapped by soap opera actors… hmmm… I hope it's that one." Musing on this for a while seems to make him miss her question until, unwrapping legs to plant feet on floor, he pushes to standing and waves a dismissive hand that segues into a press against his mouth to contain a yawn. Only halfway done with that, he tries to speak. He comes out something like: "Awhh, rah rah…" until he completes the yawn and articulates: "Oh, I don't know… what do they do after finger-painting?"

Carrie frowns, trying to track the sentence. She settles for reaching out for the cereal box, since it's offered. "Finger-painting? I dunno. Fine-arts? Kindergarden? Sorry. I'm a little dense fresh out of bed. What is it you do for a living?"

"Yeah, that. Kindergarten. That class." Because all of kindergarten is a class, Parker. Undeterred, he lets her take the cereal box, choosing to pad off towards the kitchen in search of something else. The sound of the fridge opening and closing is followed by few cupboards squeaking before they're also shut. He appears at the edge of the room again, item-less and stretching empty hands over his head before he crosses them against his chest. "I'm a yoga instructor."

Carrie follows Parker to the kitchen, and looks around for a bowl or bowl shaped object - deep plate, wide mug, like that. And maybe some milk. And a spoon. She snaps her fingers as though remembering something she forgot to do, forgot to keep the last time a plastic one went by. She pauses, thinking about these things, before coming back to Parker's statement. "Yoga, huh? Is that like with all the chakras and stuff?

She might find one in the oven — if she were so inclined to look there. Parker watches her search with a lazy gaze that doesn't seem to quite pick up what she's going for; he was, after all, just eating out of the box. "And stuff," he describes helpfully as to her question. "I don't think I've been there all week, though… I don't even know what they're doing… it's mostly women. Those kinds of desperate thirty-somethings who fill their lives with exercise and pantsuits in order to feel like they're accomplishing more than they really are." He hums unhappily, pauses. Then, "Oh, and one really attentive guy…"

Carrie sniffs a little at the comment. "I think women like that get pushed into the whole mommy and babies thing when they didn't really have the heart for it, or they're having second thoughts or whatever. I dunno. It all sounds kind of dull to me, after the life I've led already." She does, in fact, look in the oven. "That'll work." she says, and digs out the casserole dish that's in there. She rummages in the fridge next for milk. And then there's the matter of silverware. "The one attentive guy would be you? Or someone else?"

"So dull," Parker sings out in pure agreement, sounding a bit as though he'd chorused amen, sister, instead. That casserole dish she's found hasn't had anything resembling ingredients in it since… ever. Nor has the oven ever been used for its true function, however, so that just means cleanliness, right? … Right? "Mm, no," he adds, twisting to the side to yank open the drawer closest to him to reveal assorted utensils. Underneath the can-opener. "As in, one thirty-something exercise and pantsuit, mommy and babies, second thoughts about her dull life woman — except it's a man. I mean, he looks almost exactly like Amanda's real secret daddy on Ugly Betty."

Carrie laughs softly at that, and the smile that steals over her face might be startling, as though it's broken free for just a moment of some chain that held it away. "Maybe he's looking at picking up some soccer mom action?" She takes a spoon and finally begins her breakfast. "Yoga instructor. So do you think you're helping these people? I mean… teaching them something that will help them with life and all that?"

Speaking of chains, a reaction of one spreads a smile on Parker's face the moment she has hers and the wide expression only adds a bit of dork flavor to his already boyish face. He reaches carelessly towards her, aiming to bop her on the nose with a finger. "Aww, see, that, girl. That's nice." The rest, though, Parker only spins away from the kitchen, flinging his arms up in surrender ala 'god forbid!'. "Ugh, soccer moms," is the emotional declaration as he takes to meandering into the main room. "Pssh, who knows. They probably have problems as it is, though I'm sure a few of them could use the flexibility just to stay less dead. I thought it was a good hobby, you know. Better than that thing at the plant… let me tell you. Engineers? Are not fun people. They're not even interesting people."

Carrie blushes as Parker beeps her nose, and smiles again. "Stoppit…" As Parker turns away she tries to hide the disappointment when he actually, yanno, does what she asked. She pays attention to her bowl, crunching cocopuffs. Breakfast of champions. "I dunno." She says, between crunches. Talk with her mouth full? Check. "Seems like… helping people… 's a good thing."

"Yeah… that's probably in the definition or something…" Parker gives it passing thought, but only that as he circles the small apartment in a long-legged pace that puts him eventually back in the kitchen doorway to eye her more ponderously than he gave the thinking. "Speaking of which, mini honeybunches," the pet name is used as a cautious transition for what he seems to believe is bad news, carefully worded as he clasps his hands in front of him, "I've noticed you're wearing… pretty much exactly what you have before. And it's not because you're sneaking out on me with your super secret why have I yet to meet him — probably a douchebag but I'm supposed to be keeping an open mind about it so that word is not allowed — boyfriend. Sooo… I'm not really seeing an excuse anywhere in your future. For that. The clothes. Not the boyfriend thing."

Carrie looks down at her clothes. "No, no boyfriend or anything like that." She finishes her cereal and drinks the milk out of the casserole dish, then gets up to wash the dishes. "Never /actually/ had one, if you want the truth. Things have been a little hectic. And I don't spend a lot on clothes, because yanno. When you're living from crash space to crash space, your clothes get beat up. Plus I have to carry all this stuff." Not to mention her er… hobbies. Bloodstains are /so/ hard to get out of clothes. "So you're a yoga instructor… and you're all about fashion too?" Stereotype much, Carrie?

Parker gives a small shudder through his shoulders at the sound of the dreaded 'hectic', eyes rolling to the ceiling as he contemplates how much of that he'll never be having, thank you. The rest, though, tugs the expressive mouth into a quite put-out frown. "There's really no excuse not to at least try and look yourself. And I swear to you that yourself? Is not this," to which he puts a palm towards her, fingers splayed, and gestures to the entire ensemble. "I have a sense about these things. You could ask Janana, but she's not here. Oh… M G. Maybe she's at her boyfriend's… Anyway! What? Yeah, sure. Mostly I'm about, you know, keeping it real up in here. Of course I'm about fashion! Yeesh. Anyone who isn't — well, needs someone who is. And psychiatric help. We'll go shopping today. Hope you didn't have plans to go be a transient because now you have better ones~"

That being the tune to which he wanders off again, presumedly to do whatever needs doing before a huge, fabulous shopping trip. There's… really not much to deter Carrie's stereotypes in this exact moment…

"But…" Carrie says as Parker wanders off. She looks down at her clothes a little and sighs. "I don't have a lot of money to spend, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to look." She says, finally. And as for the rest, yeah, the cute ones always are.